fried pickles

The fried pickles I ordered at Innisfree Irish Pub in Tuscaloosa are the best I've tasted yet.

Yes, I devour dill pickles. But the thought of dipping a few dozen of those crinkle cut chips into a thin batter and tossing them into the bubbling grease of a deep frier never occurred to me before I moved to Alabama. But what results is a sizzling hot delicacy of the South—one that manages to slip into my wandering mind at my office desk far too often.

In my mind, I grab a toothpick and skewer a few of those too-hot-to-handle golden nuggets. I dip the blazing bunch into the cool ranch sitting in a plastic container at my right, and pop those deep-fried dixieland delights into my mouth. I sweat a bit at the piquancy that the crunchy batter delivers. I savor that familiar pickled tang that is utterly blissful at a screaming temperature. I am grateful the ranch tames the explosion just a bit. And with each bite, I reveal a bit more of the greasy wax paper beneath the pile.

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2 thoughts on “fried pickles”

Sounds delish, but I’d guess the MSG in the ranch dressing would shoot my blood pressure through the roof. When I discovered that was what was causing the blood vessels in my head to pound after some meals and snacks it became an unwelcome choice of tolerating a possible stroke, or avoiding certain pleasures.